


One Hundred Days

by opaliaus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: 100 Drabble Challenge, Challenge Response, F/F, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opaliaus/pseuds/opaliaus
Summary: a series of drabbles based off the themes presented bythe dragon age one hundred day challenge.tags updated with each entry.





	1. Index

Index

 

1\. ~~Beginning~~

  * Vivienne, pre-Inquisition.



~~2\. Love~~

  * Zevran x f!Mahariel



~~3\. Hate~~

  * Tabris, pre-Origins.



~~4\. Dark~~

  * Leliana x f!Brosca



~~5\. Light~~

  * Alistair x f!Tabris



~~6\. Memory~~

  * Adaia x Cyrion



~~7\. Innocence~~

  * Delrin, pre-Inquisition.



8\. Crossroads

9\. Happiness

10\. Rejection

11\. Sorrow

12\. Scar

13\. Pain

14\. Family

15\. Clouds

16\. Water

17\. Earth

18\. Fire

19\. Air

20\. Alone

21\. Hero

22\. Yin and Yang

23\. Friends

24\. Silence

25\. Challenges

26\. Storm

27\. Blue

28\. Music

29\. Heal

30\. Drowning

31\. Foreign

32\. Night

33\. Arrows

34\. Holding Hands

35\. Rain

36\. Creation

37\. Siblings

38\. Spirit

39\. Moon

40\. Stars

41\. Mothers

42\. Fathers

43\. Sympathy

44\. Dancing

45\. Annoyance

46\. Demons

47\. Blind

48\. Sacrifice

49\. Expectations

50\. Food

51\. Fear

52\. Winter

53\. Spring

54\. Summer

55\. Autumn

56\. Blood

57\. The Fade

58\. Magic

59\. Childhood

60\. Strangers

61\. Hope

62\. Thoughts

63\. Battle

64\. Future

65\. Teamwork

66\. Games

67\. Eyes

68\. Imprisonment

69\. Home

70\. Hair

71\. Life

72\. Death

73\. Refusal

74\. Doubt

75\. Disaster

76\. Inspiration

77\. Past

78\. Obsession

79\. Tears

80\. Failure

81\. Shame

82\. Rule-Breaking

83\. Laughter

84\. Abandoned

85\. Betrayal

86\. Pets

87\. Illusion

88\. Ancestors

89\. Ink and Brush

90\. Maps

91\. Windows

92\. Lies

93\. Heirlooms

94\. Customs

95\. Dreams

96\. Treasures

97\. Flowers

98\. Peace

99\. Masks

100\. The End


	2. Beginning - Vivienne

She could remember firm but gentle hands working through the tight coils that made her cry whenever she attempted to rake that beloved, elegant comb through her hair. It was something carved from polished wood, inset with blue stones and a golden spine. She didn't remember her mother's face, really. She caught glimpses of the woman at times in the mirror - the shape of her nose? The angle of her cheekbones? - but she'd never forget the glisten of the comb tucked lovingly into her mother's bountiful locs and the care with which the woman maintained her daughter's crown.

She remembered a warm, deep laugh that shook her whenever she sat in her father's lap. The flash of a bright smile when her fingers ventured to feel the tickling prickle of his fresh haircut, curls cropped for style’s sake, or maybe for the giggles it drew out of his daughter. There was something important about the head - the shape of the cut revealed status, the intentions of man, the ambition. “Queens wear their hair like this,” her father would sing, just before taking her to bed, his hair bound in tight braids against his skull or free in a bush. “And elves wear their hair like this,” he'd continue, bowing down to tickle her nose with his hair. “And scholars wear their hair like this.” He'd cut it all into a pattern. “Brides.” Another. “Warriors.” Another, showing her all the ways of tradition until his bald scalp gleamed in the candle light. _His_ grinning face, she would never forget. 

Her childhood could be surmised in a few brief memories, wound up in senses that brought flashes too vivid to discount as another life. Itunu, the girl with the curls and the wit was no longer someone her parents would recognize. Yet they’d been proud to see the sparks on her fingertips, a weird joy tainted by the sadness of impending separation. 

Itunu would have made them proud had the merchants from Rivain been able to see her progress. She exceeded all the expectations born from her conception, the hopes of carrying all her grandmother's wisdom, cleverness, and strength. She didn't know enough about the woman after whom she'd been named to fear betrayal at adopting a new name, but she knew better than to feel shame for it. She had been treasured and loved once and she would be again, only now for the skills she would one day provide the court. It was her last day in Ostwick, the borrowed land of her parents. It was her time, now, to find prosperity in a new place, to adopt a new tongue as her parents once had, to offer herself the ease of a new name. Not because she wished to distance herself from what little belongings she had left of her heritage - it would always be obvious with her gift of dark skin. She was Rivaini, that she couldn't and wouldn't hide - but to offer emphasis on her talent and skill. Her name was too good and too powerful to be butchered by ignorant tongues. Beginning again, she'd save herself the exhaustion of having to hear the melody of her mother's people cut off with annoyed scoffs or petulant nicknames. 

She couldn't know that peace of mind had been an assurance of the ages, a promise of wise spirits that the soul bestowed with the name would find care in the life to come. She wouldn't know that those same spirits would think Vivienne was also a fine choice. If not for _life_ , the declaration of purpose and duration, then for the grace with which she spoke the name: Vivienne, fitting for an Orlesian noble. _Fitting_. She’d practiced several names in the mirror in anticipation of introducing herself to her new surroundings, watching the way her lips shifted to accommodate them, listening for which sounded best in her voice. 

She could be Vivienne.


	3. Love - Zevran x Mahariel

Killing people for a living assured one a certain set of skills, barring a premature death before they had the ability to properly cultivate them. Zevran, however, was still alive. So he'd had many years to become confident, clever, and poised. He didn’t care to reflect on his talents often - he had them, they served him well, he had yet to die - but for the first time in many, many years, he felt himself seized with… anxiety, was it?

“Zevran.”

And nausea. He was nauseous.

“Zevran?”

He certainly could have been ill - that would have explained how he felt now: the chest palpitations and the clenching of his stomach and the heat in his face. But he’d strayed away from unlabeled bottles of unknown fermentations a while ago and was certain no one in their party cared to poison him, at least not at the moment. It was just her, her unwavering gaze and bright smile. “Yes, Nymisa?”

“Did you hear me before?” Zevran’s eyelids lowered lazily as he focused on her lips, watching the plump shapes shift from a concerned pout to an amused smirk. Looking at all of her now would have been too overwhelming, so he squinted at her wrinkled nose and the flash of her dimples as she spoke. “I asked if you had plans to ever go back to Antiva?”

“Antiva?” Zevran sighed, forcing his gaze upwards as he reclined against the tree trunk behind his back with pained nonchalance. Nymisa didn’t seem to notice, reaching up for a low branch and laughing when the act resulted in a few loose leaves fluttering down into his face. He watched silently as she wrapped her hands around the smooth bark and hauled herself upwards with ease. He craned his head back before leaning sideways to observe her better, folding his hands against his stomach when she waggled her brows at him.

“Yes, Antiva.” She glanced around herself in consideration, restless and ready to climb even higher. But she settled, watching Zevran with an easy smile.

She made everything seem so easy, Blight be damned. She pointed out flowers and made bird calls and sang in tongues. It was unnerving, the true ease of her. Zevran would have found it an admirable skill if it was something facilitated, something calculated and perfected much like his own attempt at looking at the world. But what Nymisa had was a raw, persistent happiness - something he craved. She’d lost so much as it was - her parents, her lover, her life as she’d known it. Nymisa’s approach wasn’t something cultivated by years of training or denial or repression, all the things that had made Zevran adept to survival. Her optimism was something that couldn’t be taught, something he might have killed for in another life, where the act wasn’t so easy.

“Zevran, _lethallin_.” She tipped her head upwards, groaning and laughing before looking down at him again. Zevran was still looking at her, perplexed by the smooth length of her throat. He knew everything to do to that exposed vulnerability, just how much pressure to apply with a blade before the skin broke. Just how hard to bite for a bruise to form. Just how much to kiss before moving on. He considered those things less and less, at least with her. Instead, he found himself puzzling over what lavish flatteries made her laugh and cover her face, hiding a blush often lost beneath her flawless, dark skin. He mused over what stories to share to make her come up with colorful songs to accompany his “amazing, spectacular life of mystery and intrigue.” What flowers to pluck for her to tuck behind her ear, to hear her reminisce about life with her clan.

He enjoyed it all, but thinking of it and caring for her made him sick. Feverish. Thoughtful. Longing.

“I’d like to see where you’re from,” Nymisa sighed, giving up on enticing Zevran to actually join her attempted conversation. She was gathering her hair, piling the loose curls on top of her head in the messiest fashion possible, waiting for Zevran’s response - a quiet chuckle - before letting it all fall against her back and over her shoulders, long, soft tresses he’d braided for her on more than one occasion. “I’d like to see… Everything. After, of course. We have work to do.”

“Of course,” Zevran laughed, letting his eyes find hers again. He knew what this could be, though it was terrifying to consider. He’d thought himself incapable of it, taught that everything he felt was wrong and dangerous. “I will follow you anywhere.” Something about Nymisa gave him hope for something good and lasting, something more worthwhile than the fleeting pleasures he allowed himself. Loving her now was worth any heartache that might follow, if only for the time spent enjoying her and the light she provided him, the brightness he was so desperate to truly have for himself. “And if you’d like to see Antiva, I’ll gladly take you.”


	4. Hate - Tabris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> general warning for vague allusions to abuses faced in the alienage.

Sina was binding her hair when the door slammed open. She knew better than to leave the minor safety of her bed - her mother wouldn’t announce her arrival that way, neither would Soris or Shianni. The scraping of chair legs against the floor made Sina shiver, signaling her father’s frantic scramble to stand. She knew he was praying to Andraste she be quiet and stay out of sight, but their house wasn’t so big that she could hide - not now that she was too small to tuck away. She was nearly a woman now and in her mother’s absence, she planned to stand with her father. Sina dropped her scarf on her mattress and stepped into the living space to meet Cyrion where he stood silently by the table. His eyes flashed towards her in a brief but familiar plea.

 _Behave_.

“We were directed here,” one of the armored humans started, his eyes settling on her immediately. He smirked at the sight of her and stepped forward, pushing Cyrion aside with ease. Sina watched as her father started to protest and promptly silenced himself, his gaze lowered, submissive, a safe expression. Sina could hear little more than her own heartbeat and the soft clinking of the armored men spread against the wall and blocking the doorway. She’d seen that expression before, the face of a man choosing to live rather than protest. The face of a man women never wanted to go back to - the survivor and the coward, the wise one often lost to guilt. The thought of her father looking away made Sina lose her breath.

At least Adaia had taught her to breathe.

When things were happening too quickly, when she felt her chest tighten, she was supposed to breathe. That’s what archers did, she always said. They held the air in their lungs and let it out smoothly, breathed in again and let the arrow fly in time with their sigh. Sina could do the same. She took a deep breath and let it out, expelling the air softly past parted lips. her eyes locked on the man as she glared up at him with little care, daring him to touch her like she knew he would. She could hurt him without weapons, break his fingers or poke him in the eyes if he was stupid enough to leer any lower.

“I see we came to the right place.” He snatched Sina by her arm and spun her towards his men. “She's the spitting image of the bitch, isn't she?”

“Aye,” one of them grunted.

“Search for weapons.” He turned his attention back to Sina, brushing her hair away from her face and off of her shoulder, a finger gentle against her cheek and throat. Sina's skin burned angrily against the leather glove but she said nothing, her eyes fastened to the blade on the man's hip. If she could grab it she could do more than hurt him. “Don't do anything rash, knife-ear,” he whispered, his voice loud in her ear despite the ruckus his companions were making. “I've already washed blood from my boots once tonight and I'd hate to have to do it again.”

“What?” Sina croaked, confused and concerned for the connections her mind was already making. Random raids by the guards of noblemen or even groups of angered humans wasn’t unusual - minor realities usually less devastating than full purges. The humans that came were either drunk, angry, mistaken, often searching for a man who had looked at a human lady too long, a servant they thought had stolen from their employer, or a woman that had avoided their gaze. It had been some time since any had stormed into their home, but Adaia had always been present, holding Sina behind herself and standing tall next to her husband, her arm often spread protectively across his own chest. Adaia didn’t shy away from these types and Sina hadn’t meant to either, but the guard’s words made her poor attempt at emulating her mother falter.

“Earlier this evening I was tasked with putting down a particularly feisty elf. Eight men dead, twice that maimed. She said things that led us to believe she may have been part of a revolt in the alienage.”

(When she’d come to recall the human’s words, she would remember to feel pride for her mother’s accomplishment.)

Sina looked towards her father. He looked sick, a trembling hand resting upon his chest before clenching into a solid fist. “No,” he managed, shaking his head fiercely. Sina felt a small bubble of appreciation for his defiance despite her anguish, a raging confidence at her father’s spite, a heat that straightened her spine and clenched her jaw. It was the blooming resolve her mother had long since planted with tales of free elves, warriors and scholars who didn’t bow to the will of humans. A pride that had quickly become a resolute hatred, an infallible force for when her morale was smothered out of her by their oppressors. Adaia’s murderers.

“There's no such thing,” Cyrion promised. “We know better.” He looked towards Sina and she met her father’s eyes, pride for him gone, anger seizing her breath and twisting across her face to form a merciless sneer when she returned her attention to the humans shifting back into formation before her. “We have good lives, good work,” he went on. Desperate. Pitiful. Nothing a woman like her mother deserved. “We're happy.”

He didn’t look at Sina again, but if he thought to, he might see that he managed to earn his daughter’s scorn. The guards seemed amused by it, mumbling amongst themselves before taking their leave with little more than a warning about the conduct of those in the alienage.

“I’m sorry,” Cyrion murmured when they were gone, starting towards his daughter with open eyes and wet arms. “Dysina, I’m so sorry.”

She let him hold her, crying into her curls until his knees buckled and he could do little more than hold his head in his hands. Sina left him there, sick and afraid and ashamed of that fear. In a few months time she’d understand the desperation of the lie. _We’re happy_ was never the truth. What he meant to say to her was more important than any happiness she could find trapped behind the alienage’s walls.

She’d realize later, what he meant to say, a plea to her to temper her fury and ensure their survival. _We’re alive._


	5. Dark - Leliana x f!Brosca

This was an improvement, familiar and safe. As safe as it could possibly be during a Blight.

While her companions settled in camp, making their usual chorus of preparatory sleep-sounds as they readied themselves for slumber, Divna folded her arms to look up at the deep, dark sky. It wasn’t quite the same as Orzammar, but just some hours ago the sunset had bled across the magnificent and hideous expanse above her to emulate the soothing orange and gold of a well lit tunnel.

“Not tired, Warden Brosca?”

“Divna,” she corrected absently before glancing over her shoulder. She studied Leliana quietly as she approached. The other woman’s eyes were fixed on the black void of the sky, her lips turned up into a smile. Divna doubted she’d ever come to a point in her life where she would ever get used to having such a big thing above her. Terrifying as it was, it was exhilarating to glance up and find it there. It was overwhelming, certainly, for Divna to exist up here in an eerily wide space. Some days when she woke she sat still for several minutes, waiting to find herself suspended or plucked up by one of those birds they’d come across. It had yet to happen - Alistair had assured her it never would - but she remained alert.

“Not tired, Divna?”

“Not quite,” she sighed as she folded her arms over her chest and took to scrutinizing the sky again. “It’s a pretty thing.” She pointed upwards when Leliana quirked her brows at the statement. “The colors it holds. I like when it shares them, but I still prefer when it’s dark.”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like to be born underground and suddenly meet the sky.” Leliana’s accent caused Divna’s lips to quirk in amusement. The sound of her voice filled Divna with the same delight as watching shifting clouds. One day she’d figure out the logistics of the magic that suspended them and shifted them into shapes. One day when this was over, she’d actually take time to properly enjoy them. Perhaps with the company of a bard who could explain their significance.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like to be born aboveground and not fear the sky,” Divna laughed. She was quiet for a moment, her eyes landing briefly on the ground as she considered what her mother and sister must be up to, the likelihood of seeing them again. “Leliana?”

“Yes, Divna?”

“Do you know any stories about the sky? What humans say or elves say… Why it’s there and watching.” Divna took a deep breath and pointed upwards again when Leliana tipped her head, lazily flicking a finger towards each of the alleged moons - eyes, really, though no one but her seemed concerned by them. “It’s so large, it must have several stories.”

“There are some tales I know,” Leliana smiled kindly. Looking at it reminded Divna of the sunset - the oranges and yellows and reds, some of which were too similar to the woman’s hair to keep Divna from thinking of her. She was something beautiful and sky-touched. Something scary, too, if Divna were to recall the bard’s efficiency in a fight. Like the heavens, an alluring and intimidating presence Divna was trying to understand. “Would you like to hear them?”

“Of course.”


	6. Light - Alistair x Tabris

“Here.”

Sina glanced up to watch Alistair as he shifted closer with a lit candle. He sat down next to her, grunting softly as he attempted to fold his legs to duplicate how she sat, bowed over the book in her lap. Sina arched her brows at him confusedly, waiting for Alistair to explain his reasoning for coming to join her when the rest of their companions had parted ways to retire for the night.

“Light? So you can see?”

“I can see.” Sina returned her attention to her task, spreading her fingers across the page she’d spent the past hour trying to get through. With Alistair near, she didn’t feel comfortable sounding out the words like he’d shown her. Now that she had the fundamentals, this was something she should have been able to figure out on her own. Alistair had taught her the alphabet, the proper sounds for letters and the general method of piecing them together. It was frustrating to know something as simple as talking - something she’d been doing easily since she was young - was so much more complicated when put to paper.

“You can see? How?” Alistair tipped his head upwards to follow Sina’s distracted point up towards the moons. She didn’t notice his face screwing up at the fact that that was enough illumination for her to read. The candle was helpful, of course. It lit the words up even more, making Sina’s struggle more obvious, that could see but couldn’t quite understand.

Sina shook her head, reminding herself that she _did_ understand. She understood, but not with the flawless speed Alistair managed. Often he would falter and stop to repeat himself more slowly, but Sina knew it was a struggle for him to narrate at a speed that allowed her to follow with ease. He apologized and said it was only because he wasn’t used to teaching someone, but Sina still felt self-conscious, as ridiculous as that was. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t know how to read, and Alistair had even told her that most people didn’t know how to, either - human or elf or otherwise.

There was no shame in it, illiteracy. But now that Sina knew she was capable of reading - that it was even something to _miss_ , something powerful in a life subjected to the predetermined opportunities set by murderous, bigoted shems - Sina wanted to do it and do it well. She wanted to be even better than Alistair. She wanted to master reading and writing and survive the Blight to go back to the alienage and teach the uninformed children about all the spectacular things they could do. All the treasures and potential hidden in the written word.

“I just _can_ ,” Sina murmured. Her ears twitched apologetically for her annoyed tone, but Alistair likely wouldn’t notice and she didn’t care to apologize anyway. It was his own fault for not noticing that she didn’t stumble around the dark like everyone else in the camp. “Elves can see well in the dark,” she shrugged.

“Interesting. Where are you?” He leaned closer towards her and hummed sympathetically when Sina submitted to informing him by tapping on the printed text. She waited a moment for Alistair to tell her what it said, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he shifted beside her, his encouraging smile denying Sina’s assumption that he’d been impatiently waiting for her to ask for assistance. “Am I being distracting?”

“Not in the least bit.” Sina stared at the book for a few moments longer, clenching her jaw at the letters she couldn’t quite bring herself to voicing out loud. “How many times have you read this?”

“This book? Ah…” Alistair curled a finger beneath Sina’s wrist, lifting it just enough to reveal the spine of the book for him to check the title. He didn’t have many, only three he’d offered to Sina for practicing her skills. “Too many times to count. Did you notice all the folded pages?”

“Yes.” Sina folded the worn upper corner of the page she was on and wrinkled her nose at it. “I don’t know what this says,” she admitted finally, glancing away from Alistair. He was still smiling when she finally managed to look at him, shrugging apologetically for her annoyance and embarrassment, as though he knew he was responsible for it with his insistence to sit with her.

“I can help you if you like. Have you sounded it out?” He smiled again with annoying persistence before pointing to Sina’s monumental frustration. “There’s a rule to words like this that used to confuse me, too. It’s impressive you’ve gotten this far.” He touched her wrist again to inspect the book. Sina sighed softly as he flipped the pages to judge how much of the book was left unread. “Once you know the method it isn’t so bad.”

“Thank you.”

“Hm?”

“For the light.”


	7. Memory - Adaia x Cyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i headcanon that adaia is mahariel's mother too.

Babies were smaller than she remembered, though Adaia was ashamed to admit that she probably didn’t remember as much as she should.

The day preceding the birth was still fresh in her mind, even years after. Her joined was smiling and talking. Eralas was _always_ talking, but Adaia was always eager to listen. She remembered his words and the tenor of his voice, the characteristic fluctuation between something didactic and pensive. He spoke about their place in the world, their ancestors, and their future. _Their_ future, not the Dalish as a general entity. He’d been eager to meet his child and she’d been nervous beyond belief, apprehensive of becoming a mother and something gentle. She remembered the reverence with which she’d watched Eralas, talking and planning and looking too happy. Happier than any person had the right to be. Happier than Adaia would ever be, now that he was gone.

Cyrion was nothing like her joined. He was a good husband, though she detested the human term it seemed to fit. What she felt for him was pleasant and meaningful, but they didn’t share the same cause. They saw the world with different eyes, though Adaia couldn’t blame him for the choices of his ancestors. She couldn’t blame his ancestors, either, for choosing to survive. It was admirable that he managed to work so hard and find a smile for her despite the life he led.

“I think we did good.”

Adaia smiled wryly as she inspected the babe, her eyes falling quickly upon Cyrion’s influence. The girl had a good deal of hair curling against her skull, a contrasting gold that held a hint of the reddened hair of her father’s family. She was too little to tell who she took after, but the child had seized a fair portion of Adaia’s darkness. For that alone, she was an assured beauty. And even more importantly, endowed with the strength of resistance. Her heart would come to cherish the confidence necessary to know her own worth, despite whatever cruel things she was told. There was a resilience in darkness, Adaia had noticed. While she hoped for her daughter to have the kindest, most fruitful life possible, she wasn't so enamored by the babe to hope for things to be easy. She knew better than that.

“She looks like you,” Cyrion sighed from his perch. He was sitting on a trunk by the side of the bed, his chin resting in his palm as he watched the quiet bundle in his wife’s arms. He didn’t notice Adaia rolling her eyes, amused and annoyed that he had the audacity to say such a thing. She looked like a baby.

She looked like her sister.

She didn’t feel the same, though.

“Dysina.”

“What’s that?” Cyrion glanced up towards Adaia, seeming to see her for the first time since he’d been let into the room. Adaia couldn’t fault him for being enraptured by his child, though he watched her with such adoration that Adaia almost felt as though she was in the presence of something holy.

It was a treasure she held. Her daughter, who was healthy and warm and Creators’ mercies, _quiet_. Adaia had thought all children cried until their lungs nearly burst upon arrival, but she was quickly learning that wasn’t the case. She’d barely known her first child and she barely knew this one, but she couldn’t help comparing the two. It was impossible to do the same with the experiences of carrying them. The first she’d taken for granted, the ease of it and the stillness of life when it seemed so perfect. This time instead had been challenging, corrupted by bleeds and the frustrations of her new reality. Different fathers, different lives, different children… Adaia was foolish to even reminisce now.

“Her name is Dysina.” The girl would be lucky in her hunts to come.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Good.” Adaia glanced at Cyrion before smiling. The man had had no choice in the matter of naming anyway, but he'd known that. That acceptance was why she loved him. “Come up here, let her learn your scent.”

“My scent?” Cyrion chuckled nervously as he climbed dutifully into the bed. “That's something for hounds, isn't it?”

“I remember my father's scent,” Adaia denied. Perhaps this was another one of those things the city elves forgot their parents once did. Instead of proper things, they begged for blessings from Chantry mothers who couldn't find it in themselves to be charitable enough to actually do something about the deplorable conditions of the alienage. “My mother’s scent, too.” Adaia shifted Dysina into Cyrion’s arms and closed her eyes. “You want her to remember you, don’t you?”

“Of course. Do I just… Here on my chest, that’s fine?”

“That’s good, Cyrion.” Adaia opened her eyes again to watch Cyrion fidget and settle. She kissed his cheek and brushed his hair from his face, warming at the sight of his smile. This was the life she had now and she was happy to have it. Her husband would never understand what things were like for her before, but if Adaia did nothing else of meaning until her final days, she’d be sure to teach her daughter. The girl might not understand, but she’d remember the glory of her ancestors and the dignity with which she was born.

“She’s lucky to have you, you know?”


	8. Innocence, Delrin

There was yet to be a man Delrin idolized, though his dear grandmother Alarra was no man and rightfully held the majority of young his veneration alongside his mother. His father and brother were prime candidates for the remaining share, but aside from the wisdom of their years, they were without accomplishments Delrin couldn’t one day obtain. There had once been a tutor who could list almost every settlement in Ferelden from memory. That, Delrin had admired for a full year. Until he learned the trick of having a tune to help him remember the names.

Admiration was easy, best suited for other children. Delrin was never one to take things that came easily. According to his father, ease was a trick of fate. Most things that appeared to be so were founded on practice and perfection. Those that weren’t came about by the burden of consequence. If Delrin couldn’t be mindful of that, then he deserved to suffer whatever life dealt him. Others, however, would always be victims to his carelessness. If Delrin was to be a great man someday - to ever be a _decent_ man, he should do his best to have few victims.

He supposed that morsel of knowledge should have made his father the smartest person in all of Thedas, but Delrin was steeped in criticism. He had the Barris brow: thick and often furrowed. Jervin wasn’t a hero, but a fair man. His martial prowess and prudent temperament were things to be complimented by other noblemen, a foundation of the family name, one thing he worked to ensure each child inherit despite their status as heir. It was amusing now, that Delrin found himself admiring his father more with each day. The man with sense in a world that seemed eager to lose it deserved some amount of adoration, even if Jervin would have scoffed at the thought. He saw himself as a template to inspire, not a mold for replication. His children were to take the best of him and be better than him - better than any who had come before them, exhausting as that campaign was.

Leaving the mage to the enraged crowd would have been easy.

“Make way!”

The apostate, allegedly, had been starting fires. Summoning demons. Destroying the village. The nature of the complaint itself was suspect, but the talk of the other templars assigned with investigating was just as concerning.

He was the youngest of the group, engaging in his first true outing as a full-fledged member of the Order. Delrin didn’t feel it his place to speak out about his suspicions, of the accusations or his superiors’ conduct. Many of them had placed wagers - about the mage, about Delrin’s performance, about how likely they were to end the day slaying an abomination. Delrin was some sort of wet blanket - a fact he’d never considered or cared about - and didn’t engage their attempts at drawing him into conversation. There was no place for it now that they’d arrived to find the village enthralled. The mage was outnumbered, struggling to maintain space between herself, turning with hands spread, threatening violence.

Bluffing.

“Make way!” One of the senior templars shouted. Delrin left him to part the crowd and find the village’s mayor, focusing instead on the woman desperately trying to maintain her distance from the crowd. He walked the line of her circle, his own arm spread to force the people back, increasing her safety’s circumference by another few feet.

He was alone in the middle of the crowd with the mage, the other templars just out of earshot, huddled and talking with a woman who gestured wildly. The mayor, Delrin presumed, recounting the tales of horror the town had suffered.

Only, there were no signs of scorched earth, no smoldered remains of houses, no freshly dug graves. All he saw was a scared woman and angry people trying to prod her with makeshift weapons.

Delrin drew his sword when a man threw a bottle at his feet. It shattered, empty and useless, nothing more than an annoyance. Delrin lifted his blade just enough to warn the crowd, grateful for the breathing room it provided. People shouted at him to cut the mage down, but he ignored them, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the woman hadn’t ventured far enough to be in arm’s reach of the villagers. She was hesitant to get close to him, willing to risk capture by the villagers to avoid apprehension by the Order. “Stay close,” he instructed.

She stared back at him with frightened eyes, unsure of him or his assurances. Dressed in his armor and armed with a sword larger than any of the knives of her kinsmen, he had suddenly become the more pressing danger. Him and the group of templars that had come to her home. He knew mages feared the Order, but still Delrin hoped to convey his promise to protect her. As he understood it, his duty to protect others included her as well. Whether or not she believed it was another matter. He could only convince her by action, though he wasn’t preoccupied with the task of changing her well-founded fears. He only hoped to keep her away from those who wished her harm. “They won’t harm you…” Delrin’s eyes scanned over the crowd, resting momentarily on the templars coming back towards him, their words lost as he returned his attention to the woman.

Delrin figured her older than him, now that he took the time to look at her more closely. He’d been taught to disregard ages when it came to sympathy - a child with magic could be even more dangerous than an adult - but Delrin had never seen the sense in that and so found himself assuming them to be younger, if only to elicit a response opposite to what others had been taught. He had yet to see any evidence to suggest that mages had asked for this power, to be taken from their homes and families. It wasn’t fair to consider them somehow wicked for having the power alone. “What’s your name?” He sighed and turned his wrist when the woman didn’t answer, her gaze set on a man whose threats had managed to rise above the general discord of the crowd. Delrin took a step sideways to block him from view. “May I have your name?”

“Brigid.”

Delrin nodded before shifting to face the crowd again. “This will be resolved soon enough. I promise.” He adjusted his grip on his sword and straightened when the villagers parted to make room for the templars. She’d be taken to the nearest Circle, there was no way around that. Even if she’d be allowed to stay, this was no longer a safe place for her. He’d escort her there safely, as was his job. “You’ll be safe now, Brigid.”

He’d make sure the Order knew she had committed no crime.


End file.
